The Sticklepath Strangler (2001) (42 page)

‘You believe that this poor fellow could break loose and climb up through the soil to kill Emma? No! So he didn’t kill Emma, which means he didn’t kill the others either.
He’s innocent!’

There was a sudden roar, and the Coroner spun around. Two men were hauling on ropes, while Swetricus climbed from the hole. He walked to the ropes and threw his own weight behind them, more men
pulling and groaning, until suddenly there was a harsh rending and scraping, and the timbers which had been set atop of Samson came away bringing a shower of soil with them.

From the crowd there came a great collective sigh, and Roger instantly glanced at Baldwin.

The knight had a pained expression on his face. He could hear a low wailing moan, and he knew that it must be Samson. It would be a miracle if the miller hadn’t lost his mind, left to
suffocate and die under a ton of soil.

There was a general movement towards the grave, and Baldwin felt the men pushing him forward. At his side, he saw Simon being swept on, his eyes being drawn reluctantly downwards, although when
he saw the winding sheet, he averted his face.

‘He’s fucking alive!’ a man wailed. ‘Oh, God! It’s true, he’s a demon!’

Even Simon couldn’t help but glance into the grave.

No one could have looked less like a demon. The miller lay back whimpering, his face covered with both forearms as though petrified, as though he was already in the pit of Hell and feared that
he would find himself confronted by demons tormenting him. When a man sprang down into the grave and pulled his arms away, Samson’s eyes were wild, darting from side to side. As torches were
brought nearer, Simon saw him wince and squeeze his eyes tight shut, then try to turn his face away into the dirt.

Until that moment, Simon would have been happy to see him burn, but that single childlike gesture of defence made all his fear melt away. Baldwin was right. This was a man who had been buried in
a hole only slightly larger than his own body, without food or water, left to think that he would die slowly and horribly.

The men at the side of the grave were silent for several minutes, but then Gervase stepped forward, holding out his piece of paper and pot of oil. ‘Let me down,’ he instructed.
‘I have to anoint him.’

Simon glanced at Baldwin and saw that his friend was preparing to halt this obscene event.

‘Let me pass!’ Gervase demanded again, pushing at the men nearest him, his shoulder jostling into Baldwin.

‘No, Parson. Sorry, but no. He killed my daughter.’

That was Peter atte Moor, and Baldwin saw that he was backed up by Swetricus. Drogo was still nearby, but he looked as though he might be prey to the same doubts as Baldwin himself now that he
had an opportunity to see Samson’s grave. Baldwin, acting on an impulse, strode to Drogo’s side and was about to speak, when suddenly Peter atte Moor shouted with a voice filled with
horror.

‘Christ Jesus, look! He’s still covered in her blood!’

Baldwin turned, stared at Peter, and then down at Samson. Peter was holding out a torch, sending a lurid flickering light into the grave, and now he pointed, his finger shaking.

‘You say he’s no threat? Does any man here think he isn’t a danger to us all? Look at him!’

Baldwin pushed his pointing hand aside. In the folds of his winding sheet, he could see the stains. Much of the staining came from the sodden earth, some was soiling from Samson’s fear,
but there were other marks on the cloth. ‘Rubbish! You fool, it is not Emma’s blood, it is his own.’

In his abject terror, Samson had tried to claw his way to freedom, and his fingernails had torn away as he scrabbled desperately at the timbers above his head. His head wound too was bleeding;
not with a massive effusion, but enough to spatter his face with blood, making him look suspicious.

‘This is the man who killed my daughter,’ Peter said. His eyes were wild, and Baldwin could see the spittle flying from his mouth as he spoke. ‘He killed Denise, and Aline, and
Mary, and Emma too! How many more must die? He’s possessed – we know that. We have to burn the demons from him.’

‘I said NO!’ Baldwin bellowed, but the crowd was already pressing forward. The pyre was almost complete, a large cone of faggots atop of sacking and straw, with a tree in the middle.
People reached down to grab Samson, and he was lifted, screaming with an odd, shrill voice.

‘Leave him!’ Baldwin shouted again, but he was ignored. Filled with a rushing torrent of rage that washed over and through him, he put his hand to his sword’s hilt and pulled
the blade free. The sword was a bright peacock blue that flashed and shone like a lightning bolt in the darkness. ‘STOP, I said!’

Simon heard his roar, saw the crowds begin to separate, saw the whirling of metal, and felt the blood course more swiftly through his veins. He couldn’t allow Baldwin to be overwhelmed by
the mob. It was unthinkable; Baldwin had saved his life. Crying, ‘St George!’ he pulled his own sword free and shoved men from his path, striving to reach his friend. He heard the
sudden snarl and savage bark of Aylmer, a cry, and a man leaped back. ‘’Ware the hound!’

‘Kill him as well!’ a man shouted, and a torch was thrust almost into Baldwin’s face. He felt the heat, heard the hairs of his beard fizzle, smelled the acrid burning, and
snapped his sword up into a half-guard, cutting deep into the wood of the torch before the owner could remove it. The head of the torch fell away as Baldwin saw another figure at his side, and
moved to avoid a blow as a fist holding a knife whistled past his shoulder. He thrust once and heard a scream.

Simon roared, kicked at the man before him, and was almost at Baldwin’s side when he saw her.

She came through the crowd like an avenging spirit, her face set into a vicious mask, her hands clenched into claws, and for a moment Simon thought she wished to attack Baldwin, but then she
darted under Baldwin’s sword arm, ran past the Parson, and reached the edge of the grave as Samson was being raised. Simon saw her scratch at the face of Samson, her husband. He screamed
again, lifted his hands in a futile gesture of defence, but then his voice altered. Suddenly it became a hideous bubbling sound, and as Simon watched, he saw that Gunilda’s hands were dark,
and in them was a knife. It rose, yellow and evil in the torchlight, as though she was holding a flame in her fists, and then it flashed downwards, only to rise and gleam with a fresh, crimson
fire, before plunging into Samson’s breast once more.

‘You were killed once. I can do it again, and again and again,’ she spat.

The Parson wailed; two men scurried away from her, and Samson’s cries became a hoarse coughing as he fell to his knees. Simon saw him tumble to his side, the obscene flap of skin from his
head sliced away entirely as his wife flailed at him, striking him in the head and chest.

Then the shock which had made his feet leaden, left Simon. As others pulled away from her knife’s reach, the Bailiff ran behind her; the next time the knife rose, he caught her wrists and
held them. Gripping her tightly, he forced his fingers under her own until she gave a sob and dropped the blade into the mud. Only then did Simon glance at Baldwin.

The knight had dropped to his knees at Samson’s side, and now he looked up and shook his head wearily. ‘He is truly dead this time, I fear.’

Felicia was relieved. It was done now. Even the hounds appeared to have realised and both had stopped their howling. When they had stopped, she didn’t know, for she had
been watching the events at the graveside, but now that she turned back, she noticed that they were both silent in their kennel.

She left them and walked through the crowd, pushing her way onwards until she came to her father’s body. All about him were the men of the vill, standing and staring down sombrely, while
Gunilda knelt weeping nearby. Felicia looked at her, feeling a curious detachment.

There was an almost total absence of feeling for her mother. It was strange, but now, as she looked at Gunilda, she felt only a vague sympathy for her. Gunilda had tried to protect her from
Samson, but she had failed.

Then the knight was in front of her, turning her slightly so that her attention couldn’t focus on the dead body of her father.

‘Are you all right?’ Baldwin asked softly. ‘This is a terrible place for you to be, child.’

‘I’m fine. Why shouldn’t I be?’

Baldwin studied her for a moment. She stood quietly, her eyes steady. If he had to bet, he would gamble that she was less affected by the dreadful scene than he was himself.

‘I have come to fetch Mother,’ Felicia said.

‘Yes,’ Baldwin said, standing aside. He saw the Coroner glowering, and walked to him. ‘Don’t worry, Roger. There’s nothing to concern you here.’

‘Nothing? I just witnessed a murder!’

‘Maybe you saw a woman stab an already dead man. I don’t know, we shall have to discuss the matter with the Church authorities. I may be able to talk to the Bishop. Essentially, it
is an ecclesiastical affair. Nothing to do with us.’

‘I can just see the King’s Sheriff taking that view,’ Coroner Roger scoffed, but then he nodded. ‘Whatever happens, though, I’ll be able to consider it more
rationally tomorrow morning after a good night’s sleep and a meal.’

‘Yes,’ Baldwin said, but he was troubled as he watched Felicia go to Gunilda’s side. She bent, taking her mother’s arm, and Gunilda gazed up at her with alarm, as though
she could not remember her own daughter’s face. A young lad walked over to them, and Baldwin recognised Vincent. He took Gunilda’s other arm, and she allowed herself to be led away
between the two youngsters.

Baldwin could not help but think that he would himself prefer death to life, rather than see such a lack of sorrow on his own daughter’s face. Felicia had witnessed her father’s
murder, but she looked as triumphant as a woman who has seen her husband’s murderer executed.

Felicia opened the door and thrust it wide with her hip. Carefully she pulled her mother inside, and Vin trailed in their wake, halfheartedly holding Gunilda’s hand.

‘I’ll leave you, then,’ he said.

‘There’s no hurry,’ Felicia said, settling her mother on a stool and wiping Gunilda’s brow.

Vin looked away with embarrassment. He thought there was every chance that Gunilda would be taken for the murder of her husband, although there was the claim of homicide while her mind was
unbalanced. Anyone could believe that, having witnessed the scene. Perhaps she was fortunate that the Coroner and Keeper were there to see the whole terrible affair.

Felicia was silent. Passing him a jug, she drank deeply from a cup, then said, ‘You remember that day by the river? You ran away then. Why?’

He couldn’t meet her eyes. ‘I was scared of your father.’

‘You’re safe from him now, Vin.’

‘I know,’ he said with a half grin. ‘That was why I came back last night.’ Her hand touched his, gripping it and lifting it to her heart, where she held it gently cupping
the swelling of her breast. Leaving his hand there, she tugged at the laces of her dress. Both hands now, pulling the material apart so that he could glimpse the rounded flesh beneath, and then the
cloth of her tunic came away and he could see her flat belly, the rising dark hairs at the base, her thighs.

‘Do you want me again?’ she murmured, shuffling out of her clothes and reaching up to kiss him.

He responded eagerly. ‘I thought last night proved that well enough.’

‘You seem to like my body,’ she smiled, chuckling throatily, the hard points of her nipples almost brushing his chest. He had the fleeting impression that they could stab him to the
heart.

‘Your father . . . I was scared. He’d have killed me,’ he said as she picked up her clothes unselfconsciously, bundling them into a ball and throwing them into a corner next to
a little torn apron.

She took his hand and lifted it to her breast, feeling how he trembled. ‘He’d never have known, Vin.’

‘
Bitch!
’

They had both forgotten Gunilda, who had remained seated on her stool, and who now stood and hurled herself at her daughter, flailing with her fists.

‘Get away from him! What are you, a she-devil? You would whore in my own house? Get out, you fool, leave this place!’ she shrieked at Vin, and he retreated from her.

‘You call
me
a bitch?’ Felicia bawled. ‘You dare call me that after lying back and letting
him
rape me every night? And you know what he did with those girls,
don’t you? When they batted their eyelashes at him, he went with them! And you let him, you old cow!’

‘Get out, boy! Have nothing to do with her!’ Gunilda shouted at Vin.

All he could do was flee, and he pelted from the place, out to the yard. He could remember every curve and swell of her body as though it was there before him, and the thought of lying with her
tore at him, making him wonder whether he should go back, ask her to walk out with him, away from the house, back to their riverbank, but as he reached the main roadway, he paused and leaned
against a pollarded tree, resting his brow on the bark. A thin mizzle was falling, kissing his face with a touch as light as a fairy’s, gentle little kisses that began to soothe him.

Then, listening to the river, he realised that he now knew what had happened. And he couldn’t tell anyone.

Baldwin rose with the first light, and was up at the table before the host had woken or stirred the fire.

He was more concerned than he could remember over the events of the previous evening. Never before in England had he witnessed that sort of crowd behaviour, with a whole vill joining together
against the law, prepared to destroy a man from the worst motives, from bigotry and superstition. It was a hackneyed word, ‘superstition’, one which he had used too many times recently,
but it was the only one which fitted the behaviour of the mob last night.

The memory of that terrible anger, and of his own frustration, and worse, the image of that dagger rising and plunging again and again into the breast of the hapless Samson, made Baldwin feel
physically sick. He was not squeamish, he had killed men himself: he had killed one already this summer, but that was different. This was the slaughter of a man whose only crime at the time was
that his own companions and neighbours had mistakenly thought him dead when in fact he was only wounded.